


A Joke Well-Played

by Sophia_the_Scribe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_the_Scribe/pseuds/Sophia_the_Scribe
Summary: The first-year Weasley twins wreak havoc, and Minerva McGonagall plots.





	A Joke Well-Played

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hogwarts, McGonagall, Dumbledore, the Weasley Twins, or Lee, Kenneth, Angelina, Alicia, Roger, and Patricia (I do own Matt, because I needed another Ravenclaw boy from the correct year). I also do not own the storyline: more about that on the other side.

**Early Fall 1989**

“And so the Three Principles—write this down, students—are…Weasley and Weasley! Kindly pay attention to the lesson!”

The whispering suddenly broke off, and the matching redheads looked up with an air of surprise, smiling impishly under Professor McGonagall’s stern gaze. Satisfied that, at least for the moment, she had their attention, she turned back to the board and gestured to the chalk, which was hanging in midair, to begin writing.

“First, the intention behind the switch must be…”

She paused again at the smart rap on the classroom door and called, sharply, “Enter!”

A sixth-year Hufflepuff prefect peered in.

“Sorry to interrupt, Professor, but Professor Dumbledore needs to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”

“Thank you, Miss Rostova. Tell the Headmaster I will be there shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Miss Rostova shut the door again. With a wave of her wand, McGonagall erased the board where the chalk had recorded her conversation with the prefect and replaced it with the Three Principles.

“Write down the Three Principles. I expect you to be memorizing them when I return.”

The teacher swept out of the room. For a beat, then two, the class was silent except for the scratching of quills of parchment and occasional muttering of memorization. Then—

“Hey, George.” A stage whisper.

“Hm?”

Roger Davies, one of the Ravenclaw first-years boys with whom the Gryffindors shared Transfiguration, glared at the twins for the disturbance, but having endured much worse from Percy at home they ploughed on undeterred.

“I memorize much better when I’m doing something.”

“Oh yeah?” The boys’ voices were growing progressively louder. “Like moving these desks around?”

“Exactly! Nothing better than a little physical exertion to get the brain going!”

As one, the boys leapt up, seized their desk, and shoved it sideways, screeching against the floor, until it knocked against the one shared by Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet. Alicia squeaked; Angelina righted her tipping ink bottle before shrieking,

“Fred! George!”

But Lee Jordan, while the girls were distracted, slid their desk away from them and knocked it into Davies’. He growled and pushed back, but too forcefully: both desks fell over, knocking Lee backwards into George and causing Matt Becker, Davies’ deskmate, to snarl,

“Roger!”

Patricia Stimpson giggled. Roger gritted his teeth. George and Lee began untangling themselves from the each other, the floor, and Roger’s desk when Fred casually knocked his chair on top of them.

“Ouch! Fred! Uncalled for, mate!”

Fred chortled. Roger kicked over his chair while trying to right his desk, face flaming and ink all over his hands. George kicked Kenneth Towler’s chair out from under him and he ended up sitting on the floor. Patricia knocked her shin against Roger’s fallen chair and started crying.  Lee finally managed to stand up, reaching a hand to steal Angelina’s chair, when the door banged open.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on in here?”

McGonagall stared for a moment at the frozen tableau of chaos, with Fred, George, Lee, and Roger at the epicenter. Then she strode imperiously to the front of the room, scattering wayward students and avoiding misplaced furniture, cleaned up Roger’s spilled ink with a flick of her wand, and righted the desks and chairs with another. They slid smoothly back into formation, but the children remained frozen. Her gaze hardened.

“I don’t suppose,” she said crisply, “that anyone would like to inform me what any of you thought you were doing?”

“Just a little exercise, Professor!” She turned her glare to Lee, who swallowed hard but continued manfully. “You know, to stimulate the brain!”

“I see. And who proposed this…unorthodox study technique?”

No one replied. McGonagall’s eyes lingered on the Weasley twins, whose mischievous grins were beginning to leak through their expressions of wide-eyed innocence. “Very well. Detention for Weasley, Weasley, Jordan, and Davies. Now, begin memorizing!”

And the class was once again the model of studiousness.

* * *

 

**Later Fall 1989**

“Wingardium  leviosa,” George whispered, surreptitiously pointing his wand at his quill, which rose a few inches off his desk before flying over to jab Fred in the arm.

“Wingardium leviosa,” Fred echoed, sending George’s Transfiguration book careening off his desk to land with a jarring _thud_ on the floor. Both twins snickered.

Professor McGonagall glared. “Weasley, retrieve your book, and both of you do try to avoid disturbing the class further. Now,” she raised her voice to again draw the whole class’s attention, “for the practical portion of today’s lesson. Please begin transfiguring your handkerchiefs,” she distributed these with a wave of her wand, “into envelopes with your correct address on the front.”

For a few moments the class was silent. Then—

“Ahh!”

Everyone jumped. Kenneth Towler appeared to have missed his handkerchief and instead transformed his hand into a rather odd-shaped envelope.

“P…Pro…Professor…” he stuttered, arm shaking and breathing quickening as he gazed, horrified, at his not-hand.

With a swish of her wand McGonagall restored his hand to its natural state, but he continued to stare at her, terrified, eyes wide and panicky. She reached for his shoulder and steered him, carefully but deliberately, toward the door.

“I will escort Mr. Towler to the hospital wing. Continue practicing until I return.”

The classroom door clicked shut behind them.

The ensuing silence did not last; it was broken rather quickly by “wingardium leviosa” and another flying textbook.

Fred flew the book higher, carefully directing it until it landed with a _thump_ on the teacher’s desk. Angelina Johnson tittered.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” scoffed George, who jumped up and pointed his wand at his vacated chair. “Wingardium leviosa!”

The chair began to rise, but when it was about halfway as high as the desk George’s control slipped and it fell, heavily and noisily, back to the floor.

“Oh, very impressive,” chortled his twin.

“As if you could do any better!”

“Wingardium leviosa!” The chair rose again, but this time one of its legs hooked the underside of the desk, knocking it sideways and out of the air. One of the legs cracked ominously as it hit the floor and fell on its side.

“You’ve done it now, mate!” said Lee Jordan gleefully, examining the broken wood. “Reparo! Oh, bother.” The sloppy repairing charm appeared to have fused the leg back onto the chair at an alarming angle.

A derisive snort came from a few desks down. “Honestly!” Roger Davies said, ostensibly to Matt Becker but loud enough to be heard by the whole class. “Can’t even do a basic levitation charm!”

Fred Weasley crossed his arms. “Like you could do any better!”

“Shows what you know,” Roger scoffed.

“I dare you to levitate your desk onto McGonagall’s.”

“Like _that_ would be hard.”

“Well, go on, then!”

“And get detention tonight? No thanks.”

“Hey George, you know what I hear?”

“What, Fred?”

“I hear ickle-Davy-kins being too chicken to do it.”

“You know what? I hear that too. He’s chicken.”

Patricia giggled. Roger flushed. “I’m not chicken!”

“Are too! Little Roggie, too scared to take a dare? Do you need mummy, Roggie-poo?”

Roger jumped up, knocking over his chair, pointed his wand at his desk—from which his deskmate quickly removed his quill, ink, and parchment—and cried, “Wingardium leviosa!” The desk flew through the air, clipping Matt’s elbow (he let out a grunt of pain), and landed noisily on McGonagall’s desk.

A moment of silence. Then—

“That’s ruddy fantastic!”

“Can’t be too hard.”

“I’ll bet we can do it together!”

The twins simultaneously pointed their wands at their desk and yelled, “Wingardium leviosa!” It rose rather shakily into the air, jerked, listed like a sinking ship, and finally came to rest bumpily on its side on top of Roger’s desk. Lee applauded. Fred and George bowed.

The door flew open. Professor McGonagall glanced around the room diagnostically and closed her eyes for a moment in exasperation. “I believe I instructed you to practice transfiguring your handkerchiefs,” she said icily.

“You see, Professor…” began Fred.

“You just said to _practice_ …” George continued.

“Not to practice _transfiguration_.”

“Clearly some of the class…”

“Decided that they needed more practice with levitation than transfiguration.”

“You’re such a good teacher, after all…”

“They’ve already mastered today’s subject material!”

They blinked innocently and smiled at her.

“I see.” McGonagall strode to the front of the classroom, quickly restoring its furniture to the floor. “In that case, since you’re all so accomplished, you won’t mind if I quiz you individually on today’s practical lesson, right now. George Weasley, you’re up first.”

No further incidents disturbed Transfiguration class, except George’s lopsided chair dumping him onto the floor as he returned to his seat, and Weasley, Weasley, and Davies being assigned extra homework for unsatisfactory transfigurations.

* * *

 

  **Early Spring 1990**

Professor Minerva McGonagall strode up the hall from the Transfiguration classroom toward the Headmaster’s office with pursed lips and a narrowed gaze that sent several unfortunate Slytherin second-years scurrying down a side-passage do avoid her path. Reaching the gargoyle guard, she snapped, “Sugar quill,” and entered, ascended the moving staircase, and rapped smartly on the door.

“Do come in, Minerva,” came Dumbledore’s mildly amused voice from inside the room. She opened the door. “Care for a lemon drop?” His eyes twinkled behind his spectacles.

“No, thank you,” she returned curtly, sitting stiffly in the chair in front of his desk. “You know I can’t stand the flavor.”

“My dear Professor McGonagall, what has gotten you so flustered?”

Minerva sighed, some of her frustration leaking away, as it always did in the Headmaster’s presence. “It’s those Weasley twins, Albus. If it were just pranks in the corridors and inter-house animosity and dung-bombs in the common rooms it wouldn’t be such a problem—Heaven knows I’ve learned how to deal with all that over the years!—but…” she shook her head and sighed, “I’m not sure I’ve ever had students with such _ability_ to learn, yet so little _desire_.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, laying his folded hands before him on his desk, and smiled slightly. “I’m afraid you’re comparing our newest pair of troublemakers to their predecessors.”

Minerva blinked, considering. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes saddening slightly, “of course.”

“James and Sirius were, naturally, brightest in their year,” Dumbledore said, “and despite a rather substantial inclination toward mischief, both had an ingrained desire for, if not learning itself, at least being top of the class.”

“James wanted to live up to the name of Potter,” McGonagall recalled, “and Sirius…to live down the name of Black.” She winced slightly. What had happened to that newly-sorted Gryffindor, eager beyond reckoning to show that he was not his family? When had—but best not to think about that now. She wrenched her thoughts back to the conversation; Albus was speaking again.

“Remus was, of course, a model student except when he wasn’t, and Peter tried hard to keep up—in classes as well as pranks.”

“Yes, the Marauders were…different.” Minerva shook her had almost fondly. “They had a penchant for ingratiating themselves to the teachers despite their most disruptive deeds.”

Albus chuckled. “Yes, they certainly had a way of that. That time in their first year—in your class, do you recall?—when James and Sirius transfigured their cushions into hedgehogs instead of kneazles? You handled the situation admirably despite the panic in the classroom and your hands getting stuck full of quills. That was before young Lupin began derailing their more dangerous prank ideas, I believe. Though they were, of course, never vicious boys, only…high-spirited.”

But McGonagall was no longer listening to Dumbledore’s reminiscing. _That_ was what she had sensed from the Marauders but lacked in the Weasley twins. Ever since the Hedgehog Incident—which she _had_ handled rather well, if she did say so herself—they had had a certain _respect_ for her. Oh, they pranked Transfiguration class constantly, but there was a certain subtleness—class—to the pranks, as though they considered her a worthy opponent. There was a certain idea of _fair play_.

Shoving around furniture whenever the teacher was called out of the room for a few minutes—and not even attempting to conceal themselves as the perpetrators—was neither subtle nor classy.

Abruptly Minerva realized that Albus had long since ceased speaking and was gazing at her with a mildly amused expression. “Have you found your solution, my dear?”

“Indeed I have.” She allowed her own mouth to twitch slightly in shared amusement before standing up and moving toward the door. “Thank you for your assistance, Headmaster,” she said formally. She laid her hand on the doorknob, but paused before turning it.

“Do you think…” she began, sadness coloring her tones, but then hesitated on how to convey what she truly wanted to ask.

“I think,” Albus said, “that some things are outside even my control.” He spoke lightly, but Minerva knew her headmaster well enough to hear the suffusion of regret through his words, and knew that he would join her in doing everything possible to ensure that Hogwarts’ newest troublemakers would not suffer their predecessors’ fate.

* * *

 

  **Late Spring 1990**

The term was quickly drawing to a close, and Professor McGonagall was sitting in her office pondering the best way to go about her Plan, when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called.

Roger Davies entered looking determined, followed by Patricia looking giggly, Alicia and Angelina looking nervous, Kenneth and Matt looking annoyed, and—surprisingly—Lee Jordan looking highly amused. A few more Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students sidled in at the back, looking abashed. McGonagall abruptly realized that it was the whole of that first-year Transfiguration class—all except the Weasley twins.

“What is it, Davies?” She asked Roger, who was clearly the group’s spokesman.

“Well, Professor…” he began hesitantly, “you know how Fred and George have been disrupting your class all year?”

“Only the Weasleys?” she asked pointedly.

Jordan chortled and tried to cover it with a cough when she turned an accusing eyebrow in his direction. Davies flushed.

“No, Professor,” he said penitently, “but they were always the instigators. Isn’t that right?” The last question was directed at the crowd behind him, which gave uncomfortable, assenting murmurs.

“If you wished to tell me this, why not until now? I cannot revise punishments that have already been assigned, and will not punish further for the same misdemeanors.”

Angelina Johnson now spoke up. “We’re not tattle-tales, Professor,” she said earnestly, “we couldn’t tell you then. But…”

“But we were wondering if you were interested in our help for a pay-back prank on the last day of class,” Davies concluded, rushed and nervous.

She did not reply.

“Never mind, Professor, it..it was a stupid idea,” Roger fumbled on, stuttering, “we’ll just…” He began edging toward the door.

“Stay here, Davies,” she said, impatiently, “I’m not going to eat you. In fact, I rather like your idea; it may fit well with something I was already planning. Would you elaborate?”

His eyes lit up, his mouth curled into an anticipatory grin, and, with frequent interjections from Lee, he outlined the plan the class had begun formulating.

**Slightly Later**

“I am pleased, on the whole, with your work as a class this year, and I hope you all have a pleasant holiday. I look forward…”

A knock interrupted Professor McGonagall’s final lesson, and Miss Rostova, the sixth-year Hufflepuff prefect, entered. She quickly walked up to the teacher and whispered something in her ear.

“I apologize, class, for this interruption. I will return shortly.” She directed a stern gaze around the room as she left, focusing it especially on the Weasley twins, willing them to remember her before-class warning—any funny goings-on would result in a note directly to Molly Weasley, to meet her at the station when they pulled in. She _would not_ have her final day disturbed. They had looked put-out, but had agreed. Now, under her glare, George nodded sullenly and Fred gave both a sigh and a small thumbs-up. McGonagall nodded imperiously and swept from the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Roger Davies jumped up, grinned, and with a shout of “Last day of school!” and a hard shove, knocked his desk to the floor.

As though this were a cue, pandemonium erupted in the room.

Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson arranged their chairs on top of their desk in what looked like a giant, elaborate centerpiece. Kenneth drug McGonagall’s desk to the center of the room. Patricia stacked everyone’s textbook in a high tower on top of it, topping the whole thing with the professor’s quill-jar. Matt threw his bottle of ink at Lee, who deflected it with his wand swung like a bat so that it splattered on the Weasleys’ desk, covering their hands, quills, and parchment.

“Watch it, Jordan!” Fred growled, shaking his hand and splattering ink on a couple of other Gryffindors who were busy building a structure that most resembled a fort made of desks. The remaining Ravenclaws grabbed a stack of parchment from McGonagall’s desk drawer and threw the whole thing into the air. The largest bunch _splat_ -ted onto Fred and George’s desk, spraying more ink onto them. With a snarl both twins leapt to their feet, snatching their wands and waving them angrily at the chaos surrounding them.

Without warning the classroom door flew open with a loud _bang_ , and Professor Minerva McGonagall stood framed in the doorway, blazing with wrathful fury.

“What, in _Merlin’s name_ , do you two think you’re doing?” she hissed, marching up to the suddenly-petrified Weasleys and snatching their wands from limp grips. “You never, _never_ , point your wand at another student in anger. I ought to snap these _right now_. But I think I’ll save the pleasure for your _mother_.”

She strode angrily to her desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and drew out a piece of parchment that was inscribed with the words _Major Student Offenses_. Summoning a quill from the top of Patricia’s book tower, she scrawled _Fred and George Weasley_ on the top of the page and, her voice now steely and deceptively calm, began marking off each and every one of the offenses listed on the form, reading them aloud as she did so.

“Constantly and intentionally disrupting class,

“Blatantly disrespecting teachers,

“Threatening other students physically,

“Threatening other students magically,” she paused to glare at the twins again.

“Entering extra-house dormitories without permission,

“Entering teacher quarters without permission,

“Entering the Forbidden Forest without permission,

“Leaving the grounds without permission”—horrified looks began stealing over the twins’ faces as McGonagall continued to check every offense, regardless of whether or not the brothers had committed it—

“Major damage or destruction of Hogwarts property,

“Theft from the Hospital Wing,

“Theft from the Potions Lab,

“Unauthorized research in the Restricted Section of the Library,

“Unauthorized research of the Dark Arts,

“Use of Banned or Restricted Spells, Curses, or Jinxes!” McGonagall finished triumphantly, slapping down her quill and flourishing the marked-up form. “You can see how your mother reacts to _that_!”

Both twins’ faces were redder than their hair as they stared open-mouthed at Professor McGonagall, terrified and flabbergasted. George was gripping the back of his chair so tightly that it began to splinter in his hand. Fred seemed on the verge of tears.

Then McGonagall’s face smoothed into no more than its usual sternness, she calmly crushed the incriminating parchment in her hand, tossed it into the air and, with a flick of her wand and “Incendio!” left it as nothing more than ash that fluttered down on top of the twins’ ink-covered desk. “Scourgify!” and the ink was gone, and she gently laid the boys’ wands down before them.

“Be sure I never truly have to write you up,” she said almost kindly, with the smallest hint of a grin touching the corners of her mouth. Then she turned away and began restoring the classroom to its original order.

For a long moment there was no sound in the Transfiguration classroom but McGonagall’s quiet cleaning, repairing, and restoring spells, and the harsh, fast, adrenaline-induced breathing of the Weasley brothers.

Then, suddenly, Lee Jordan let out of ringing peal of laughter, draped himself over Fred and George’s shoulders, and managed to stutter out, “Oh Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_ did we get you good. You were so ruddy _terrified_ , I’ve never…never…” he trailed off again incoherently. The twins began to join in, almost hysterically.

“You mean…it was…was…”—“a _joke_?!” Lee nodded frantically, trying to catch his breath between bouts of hilarity. And suddenly the rest of the class lost all semblance of control, giggling and chortling and hooting with laughter, from the most outgoing Gryffindors to the most reserved Ravenclaws, with Professor Minerva McGonagall imperturbably restoring order in the midst of the class’s chaotic enjoyment of a joke well played.

**Very Slightly Later**

When the bell had rung and the students had finally stopped laughing, Roger Davies strode up to the twins, who were still leaning against their desk in a mixture of relief, amusement, disbelief.

“I’m afraid it was my idea, mates. No hard feelings?” he said, holding out his hand.

“’Course not!” said Fred, shaking it. 

“What kind of wimps would we be, if we could dish it out but couldn’t take it in?” added George, also shaking Roger’s hand, and splattering him with the remainder of the ink in the bottle while he was at it.

Roger spluttered and shook, but grinned ruefully. “I guess I deserved that. But…” he trailed off. Professor McGonagall had walked up impressively, having finally put the classroom back to its proper order.

“But, after all, it was really you, Professor, wasn’t it?” said George, smiling sheepishly.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. Both twins snorted in amusement.

“You sure got us good, Professor,” Fred said, shaking his head ruefully, “you sure got us good.”

“Thank you,” she replied politely, and strode away from the kindled light of respect she had just seen in the brothers’ eyes.

She had won—this round, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> In the front-matter author's notes, I disclaimed this storyline. That is completely true: Professor McGonagall's prank belongs to my mother. 
> 
> She was teaching an eighth grade physical science course at a private school to a class with a resident troublemaker (let's call him Bill) whose favorite troublemaking was to rearrange the classroom furniture every time she stepped outside to speak to another student (it was school policy for how to deal with misbehavior). It was her first year teaching and she was greatly frustrated; when, at the end of the year, the rest of the class came up to her and said, "We know how to get [Bill] back!" she agreed. 
> 
> So, on the last day of school, two students staged a fight and she took them outside. The rest of the class began 'reorganizing' the furniture, and when my mom came back in she immediately rounded on Bill, chewing him out for the disturbance. She pulled out the serious offences form and began checking everything off, from 'disturbing the class' to 'illegal use of drugs and alcohol.' Bill's face just got redder and redder: he had a Molly-Weasley-esque mother whom he *never* wanted to get a form like that. My mother's poker-face, however, is not as good as McGonnagall's; about half-way through the form she cracked and started laughing, at which point the joke came out. 
> 
> Later, Bill came up to her and said, "You got me good." 
> 
> Yes, my mother is amazing. 
> 
> (And if on the one-in-a-gadzillion-chance Bill the Resident Troublemaker reads this and recognizes it, well: thanks so much for the laughs all these years! It has become one of our staple household stories, and I hope you don't mind my using it here. After all, my mom really did Get You Good.)


End file.
